


Children of the Lonely Mountain

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durin Family Feels, Gen, Kid Fic, Kink Meme, bb!dorf addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the kink meme, "Five times Thorin looked after his little brother and sister, and one time they looked after him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story. Read the original prompt and fill here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8812821#t8812821 Originally, this was going to be a series of very short mini-fills, but then I got to thinking, "Hmm, I really did want to write Frerin...and Thorin's mom needs a name..." As a result, I've only finished part one of six. Oh, dear.
> 
> Also, warning: Some of Thrain's behavior might be triggering for domestic abuse, but that is absolutely **not** how I meant it. Dwarves, as I write them, are pretty aggressive and physical (both in affection and anger). He's not actually hurting or even intimidating his wife, they're both just on edge in this installment and not being particularly kind to one another. Still, if you'd rather not read anything like that, then just click the link to close.

No one had seen the King in nearly three days. His Lord Thrór, in his youth, was known to be a gregarious dwarf, as apt to strike up a conversation with a scullery maid as he was with the head of his guard. The last few years, his face was less and less likely to be seen outside his throne room or his treasure chamber and his booming laugh no longer echoed through the stone halls.  
  
“Will you not speak to him?” Freya, the king’s daughter-in-law, asked her husband one night when they were in their chambers, alone but for their three children. The princess nursed their daughter in her arms and their middle son dozed on their bed, while their eldest son sat looking over his lessons, pretending not to hear his parents’ discussion.  
  
Thráin just shook his head and rose to pace halfway across the room, “I have tried, do you not believe I’ve tried? He seeks no one’s counsel save his own. As he is our king, that should be enough.”  
  
Freya exhaled softly, passing a hand wearily before her eyes, “I respect him as my king, but I love him as my father-in-law and I worry for him as my father.”  
  
“And do I not worry?” Thráin demanded. “Do I seem complacent to you? He is _king_ and I am his son. If he shuts his ears to me and bars the doors of his treasure room, what can I do but obey? It would be treason to do anything else.” Freya’s golden blonde head snapped up and she opened her mouth as if to retort, but thought better of it, closing it and looking away. Dís had fallen asleep at the breast and so her mother laid her down in her cradle by her parents’ bed, back turned to her husband.  
  
“You find my answers inadequate,” her husband stated bluntly.  
  
“I find your _actions_ inadequate,” Freya said quietly. “And your answers inane.”  
  
The eyes of the heir to the throne of Erebor flashed angrily and this and he crossed the room, grabbing his wife’s arm and whirling her around to face him. “What would you have me do?” he bellowed, so loudly that Frerin stirred on the bed and the infant began to fuss and wake. “Lock him away like some raving hermit? He...he has these spells, aye, these _lapses_ , but he recovers, does he not? We must be patient.”  
  
Freya wrenched her steely arm out of her husband’s iron grip. “We have waited! With every passing year we wait longer and longer for him to come back to himself. No one says a word, whether out of loyalty or fear, I don’t know. I don’t care, either, for something must be done, surely you see that!”  
  
“What I see,” Thráin replied coolly, “is a noblewoman who does not honor her king.”  
  
What both of them failed to see was a son who quietly crept away from his desk, reaching into his sister’s cradle and taking the babe in his arms. His younger brother, unnoticed by his parents, slipped off the bed and the three of them crept out of the suite of rooms at the heart of the mountain, silent as shadows.  
  
“Where are we going?” Frerin asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.  
  
“We’re taking a walk,” Thorin informed him, rubbing his sister’s back to sooth her to sleep.  
  
“S’too late for walks,” the younger yawned. “S’dark. We’ll get lost.”  
  
“We’re going for a visit,” he said and that piqued his brother’s interest for Frerin loved visiting almost as much as he loved food, fighting and making noise when he was supposed to keep quiet. Mister Balin’s door was always open the hours he was awake, just in case any young dwarflings needed a bedtime story to sweeten their sleep with tales of the might of their people.

Thorin raised his hand to knock on the door, but Frerin simply burst in, announcing himself with a loud, “Mister Balin! We’ve come to visit!”  
  
The improbably kindly young warrior, whose black beard showed the earliest signs of premature greying, smiled at the intruding lads, though one of his brows rose when he spied the youngest child sleeping on the shoulder of the eldest. “Here now, what’s this?” he asked, holding out his hands to Thorin that he might take his sister.  
  
The prince drew back slightly, “I’ve got her.” Sitting himself down on the floor by Mister Balin’s hearth, he looked up and said, “Mother and Father are busy and haven’t time for a story tonight. We thought we might ask if you could tell us one.”  
  
“Story!” Frerin added enthusiastically, sitting down beside his brother and looking up at Mister Balin with a hopeful expression. “Please, Mister Balin?”  
  
“Well, alright,” he replied, reading all he needed to know about what drove the little dwarflings from their chamber in Thorin’s eyes. “What’ll it be?” he asked, easing himself into a chair by the fire. “Wandering Durin in Khazad-dûm? Or King Azaghâl and the Slaying of the Dragon Glaurung?”  
  
“Dragon!” Frerin cried and Thorin quietly agreed that dragons made for better stories than the founding of cities, however great they might have been.  
  
“I thought you might say that,” Balin smiled at the children. Then he lowered his voice and began the tale, “It was many years ago, before the reckoning of any of our people yet living, when Glaurung the Deceiver came to Angband. He was called The Deceiver because the only words that came from his great, toothy mouth were lies. Beautiful lies that people longed to hear - "  
  
"Mister Balin?" Frerin interrupted, raising his hand like a pupil in a schoolroom, although he was too young for formal lessons.  
  
"Shh, Frerin, keep your tongue in your mouth," Thorin chastised. He preferred his bedtime stories without breaks or digressions.  
  
"No, that's alright," Balin assured the frowning young prince. "Yes, Master Frerin?"  
  
"How could a lie be beautiful? Aren't lies..." he cast his mind around for a grand word that would adequately express his thoughts, but settled on a small, plain one instead, "bad?"  
  
"They are indeed," the warrior agreed. "And we Dwarves are not natural liars, nor do we take to being lied to, but some folks...there's some folks that don't mind a lie every now and then. 'Specially if it makes 'em feel proud. Or important, if they'd never felt important before in their lives. Glaurung did just that for some. He was not the most magical of the dragon race, but he was one of the most cunning...”  
  
And the dwarrow-man continued his story until young Thorin's eyes were wide with wonder and young Frerin's were heavy with sleep. "You are quite a weaver of words, Master Balin," a deep voice rang out from the doorway.  
  
"My lord!" Balin exclaimed, shocked to see King Thrór in his chambers after his strange, prolonged solitude. The king smiled, but his face was lined with care and his eyes were shadowed by sleeplessness.  
  
"Don't get up," the King Under the Mountain requested, waving a hand to urge the younger dwarf to remain seated. The great leader of Erebor crouched on the floor and picked Frerin up in his arms. The dwarfling snuggled into his grandfather's thick beard, half asleep already.  
  
Thorin rose on his own, his little sister slumbering on peacefully. "You've got her?" his grandfather asked and the child nodded. "Of course you do. You've got good, strong arms." And bowing good-night to Master Balin, Thrór walked his grandchildren back to their chambers, to the parents who were startled to realize the children had gone anywhere at all.


	2. 4

“I swear, that princeling is trying to make me go as grey as my brother,” Dwalin, son of Fundin muttered to himself as he stalked up the corridors of Erebor. “FRERIN!” he thundered, “I’M LEAVING WITHOUT YOU, LADDIE! You had your chance and I’ve enough of your - ”  
  
From the top of a great stone statue, something mid-sized and heavy dropped upon his back. “Got you!” a cheerful voice rang in the young dwarf’s ear. “I surprised you and all!”  
  
Dwalin swung this way and that trying to dislodge the rascal. “I’ll box your ears!” he threatened, but Frerin clung fast, laughing all the while.  
  
A higher, giddier laugh joined the first and a head of tousled black locks peeped out from behind the same monument her brother jumped from. “You got him!” the little princess cheered, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.  
  
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re in on this too?” Dwalin groaned. “It’s a bloody conspiracy!”  
  
“Dwalin! Such language in front of the little ones,” tutted a voice that did not sound nearly as concerned as the words implied. Thorin strode down the hall with a smile on his face and Frerin waved at his older brother, fingers of one hand holding tight to Dwalin’s hunting coat.  
  
“I caught a wild Dwalin,” Frerin reported proudly. “May I skin him?”  
  
His elder brother nodded and sighed gustily. “Aye, I suppose we’ll have to. And mount his head in the game room. I only wish he put up more of a fight - hey now!” Dís collided with her elder brother’s legs and wrapped both arms and legs around one limb, taking a comfortable seat on his foot.  
  
“I caught Thorin!” she declared, burying her face in the soft fur of his boots.  
  
“So you did,” Frerin grinned. “Nicely done, sister! Now we can mount their heads, side by side and won’t that make a pretty picture? I’ll let you use my carving knife for the sinewy bits.”  
  
“Pair of ghouls,” Dwalin moaned, folding his arms across his chest. “Kin-slayers both.”  
  
Aware that his sister was not going to let go, Thorin walked over to his brother and friend, letting her ride along atop his boot. She held on all the tighter and laughed. “Where are you off to?” he asked Dwalin.  
  
“We were going on a hunt, but I can’t ride if I don’t have a head,” he said with a wry smile. “Looks like there’s a bit of a stumble in your plan, lad.”  
  
Frerin shook his head, “Not a bit I’ll just ride the pony myself.”  
  
The dwarf he clung to laughed hard at that. “Oh, aye. Sure you will. And when you’re thrown because your legs don’t reach the stirrups, it’ll be my fault and your father’ll tan my hide.”  
  
“Can’t tan you if your head is already mounted,” Frerin retorted. “Well, I suppose he _can_ , but it wouldn’t matter to you none.”  
  
Thorin gave his brother a look and the dwarfling stopped carrying on about the death of his brother’s dearest friend. “You’ll ride with Dwalin ‘til your old enough that you don’t have to be lifted into the saddle.”  
  
The young prince slid off Dwalin's back and stood beside him on the floor, round face frowning sincerely. “It's not fair,” he mumbled.  
  
“It's _very_ fair,” Thorin corrected him. “I rode behind Balin for years before I was given my own mount.”  
  
“Aye, and I rode behind my father,” Dwalin nodded, ruffling Frerin's hair affectionately.  
  
“I want to come!” Dís piped up from near the floor. Her brother bent and picked her up, settling her in his arms.  
  
“And so you shall,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “When _you_ are old enough.”  
  
“I ride with Dwalin,” she suggested, reaching out for the tall, broad dwarf.  
  
How could he resist such an offer? Dwalin plucked the tiny lass from her brother's arms and tossed her into the air, making her shriek with delight before he handed her back to Thorin. “Like as not she'll be a better riding partner.”  
  
That comment sparked Frerin's attention. “What's wrong with me?” he demanded.  
  
“You wriggle.”  
  
“I don't!”  
  
“Oh, but you do. As I'm the one whose head is on the line should you fall and break your skull, I _notice_.” Dwalin reached down and plucked the now-protesting dwarfling from the floor and placed him on his back again. “Let's go, we're late enough as it as.”

“Good hunt,” Thorin called after them and Dís waved goodbye to the retreating pair. Thorin bounced his sister in his arms and wondered aloud, “What's to be done with you?” His sister seemed very content to spend the day in his arms, playing with the end of his braids and running her small fingers over the clasps in his hair. Her brother would have been happy to let her do so, but he had things to attend to that his sister could not join him in until she was much older.  
  
Thorin left Dís with their mother who distracted her with a beautifully illustrated book of legends long enough that her eldest could slip away and fulfill his duties without prompting tears and tantrums from his adoring sister. All children were a blessing, but it seemed to Thorin that his sister was special. Despite – or perhaps because of her youth, she was one of the few who their grandfather could look upon with his old warmth. His mother's prediction of years ago seemed to be coming true: their king was getting worse, not better.  
  
Rumors flew around Erebor that the King was suffering the gold sickness and fear colored their tones and darkened their eyes. When the gold sickness cursed the monarchy, the people suffered. Soon they feared that Thrór would deny his courtiers money to purchase food for the mountain and they would all starve. Thráin tried to keep their people happy and provided for as best he could without exciting his father's notice, while more and more Thorin was left to mind his grandfather. It troubled him deeply to see that a once proud and noble warrior was being looked after as if he were a child, but nothing hurt as much as his grandfather striking out at him and calling him a thief when the worst of the madness was upon him.  
  
Dís, with her innocent laughter, love and kisses freely given, helped put his mind at ease at the end of a long day. He no longer slept one room over from his parents, but he often passed his nights in their chambers, sister on his knee or Frerin's back. When his grandfather was well enough, she was the only one who could make him smile. It never occurred to him, as he saw her crawl into their mother's lap for a story, that it could be the last time he set eyes on her.  
  
Not an hour later, the stones fell about them and their land and home was a wash of screams and fire. As Thorin bore his wounded father out the gates, he was conscious of hundreds of souls running for their lives, taking little with them beyond the clothes on their backs. The enormity of what they lost was unfathomable to Thorin in that moment, he could only think about what he yet stood to lose. _Please_ , he prayed silently, his mother, brother and sister's faces all he could see, yet he spied none of them anywhere. _Let them yet live._  
  
If only one of his prayers could be answered that day, somewhere, amid the horror and rage flooding through him, Thorin was grateful. Dwalin brought Frerin back safely, though he could not stop apologizing and begging his friend to forgive him that he had not been in the mountain when it was taken. Frerin still in his arms, Thorin embraced Dwalin as well, resting his head against his brow and whispering that there was nothing he could have done, there was nothing to forgive and he thanked him for Frerin's life. Dwalin, his voice thick with sorrow, thanked Thorin in turn for his own brother's.  
  
If that thanks made the young dwarf drop tears that fell into Thorin's own eyes and tracked down his own cheeks, neither of them made mention of it.

Their mother fled the mountain with Dís in her arms and she was still in a state of shock. On that first night, Freya and Thráin lay in each others' arms, staring into the fire, their thoughts far away from all that surrounded them. Families and the remains of families found solace with one another in the shock of the aftermath of the attack. It was begun and ended so quickly; only four hours before people bartered in the markets, laughed in the streets and hunted in the mountains. They could never have imagined being brought so low in such a short period of time.  
  
Only Thrór sat alone, away from his people, unspeaking except for refusing the offer of food and drink. He fasted as if in atonement.  
  
Dís was horribly shaken from the events of the day, Frerin would not leave his side, so Thorin sat a short distance from their parents and took both his siblings on his lap, even if Frerin was slightly too old for such treatment. His arms were tight around both of them, the only shelter they had now that the walls of their mountain had been so ruthlessly taken from them.  
  
“I want to go home,” Dís cried softly into his chest. Thorin could not hold her any closer than he already did, but he tucked his head against hers and breathed in the smell of her hair. It smelled like smoke.  
  
 _As do I_ , he thought, but could not say. He was a prince. He would someday be a warrior. He had to be strong, for himself, his family and his people.


	3. 3

The days were getting shorter; soon Durin's Day would be upon them. If the Worm had not come, the preparations would even now begin for the festival, the candles would be laid aside for religious observances, but the bulk of the Dwarves' attention would be devoted to making ready the barrels of mead, setting up the spits to roast the meat and receiving flour and honey for the rolls and sweets. But the dragon had come and the exiles of the Lonely Mountain had not seen their home in almost ten years. They would be able to pass the winter with Dáin and his people, loathe as the King was to go begging on his cousin's doorstep, there was no choice.  
  
The Iron Hills were many miles from them and they were already running low on fuel for the camps. Thorin could not keep his mind from straying to the thought of the bonfire that curled high in the air on Durin's Day Eve, to the very top of the mountain, and the sparks that flew forth from the flames that disappeared into the night sky. His mother told him once when he was very small that it was the sparks from Durin's own fires, burning when the world was new, that flew into the heavens and got stuck, creating the starscape they saw above their heads on clear nights.  
  
Now it was difficult for him to look at a fire without remembering the trees blazing bright, the putrid smell of burning flesh and thousands of desperate screams. But he would chop wood and build fires, otherwise he risked the screams of terror being replaced in his dreams with the cough and death-rattle and the soft weeping of dwarflings who hadn't anything to eat.  
  
A small group of volunteers agreed to venture further into the forest they were camping in to cut trees for wood before the frost and thaw made the wood wet and difficult to light. His party consisted of himself, Balin, Dwalin, Frerin, Óin and, most unusually, Dís, riding on Dwalin's shoulders. Óin, ever a traditionalist at heart, shook his head when he saw the little dwarfling, wearing a castoff coat of Frerin's, would be joining them  
  
“Not right,” he groused. There was just as much melancholy as censure in his voice. “Little lass like that should stay along of her mother.”  
  
Her mother, who couldn't help overhearing him, raised her head and caught his eye. The dwarrow-man seemed a little embarrassed at the princess's notice, but she simply nodded and agreed, “Aye. So she should.” Then she rolled the too-long sleeves over her daughter's hand, handed Dís a thick knife with a toothed blade and instructed her as to its use and safety. “Now, m'dear, you're only to use this on the low-hanging branches. Careful of your fingers – and don't cut off our Dwalin's ears when he's being so good as to mind you.”  
  
Dís solemnly swore that she would be very cautious indeed as she tucked the blade away and clambered onto Dwalin's broad back. She got nervous when the menfolk went away, constantly asking her mother when they would return, how long they were going to be gone and – more frequently- running off after them. It was mutually decided that she'd be safer going along, if their task wasn't too dangerous. Better that someone knew where she was rather than letting the little princess worry half the camp when she took off.  
  
Ordinarily on these excursions she made herself useful picking up dead twigs and small branches that fell to earth and made for quick kindling. The forest floor here was almost spotlessly clean, no fallen branches blocked the pathways, nor did they see any carcasses of rotting vermin, too small to make a meal for larger predators.  
  
That ought to have been a sign that perhaps this forest was not one to go felling trees for their campfires, but the Dwarves of Erebor, still new to travel, thought only of feeding and warming themselves and their loved ones and not of the potential danger.

Óin sighed as he lifted his battle axe and cut into a tree. “Not what this was meant for,” he lamented. It was a family heirloom, passed down from his own father and was intended to cut through flesh and bone, not hack away at sturdy tree trunk.  
  
“It was lucky you were able to take it away,” Balin reminded him. Every time one of their people grumbled about putting well-crafted weapons to use for lowly tasks, he felt the point needed to be made that it was Mahal's own blessing that they'd made it out with weapons on them in the first place. It was not worth contemplating how much more they might have suffered sent into the wilderness unarmed.  
  
“Aye,” Óin agreed reluctantly. As one of their best healers, he saw more than his fair share of suffering on the road.  
  
Nearby, Thorin and Frerin were toiling away with a Man-made crosscut saw they'd bought for a pittance weeks ago and the tool was showing its worth. “This blasted thing!” the younger brother exclaimed as the handle, coming loose from the blade made even strokes difficult.  
  
“Want to switch?” Thorin offered, giving the blade a glare as though it personally offended him. They'd not the time to stop and set up their own forges so they had to take what they could afford to purchase, but he was confident his younger brother, who only started apprenticing (when they had the time to sit down at teach him anything) could make a finer product than this.  
  
“Alright, if you're offering,” Frerin nodded, smiling tiredly and trading places with his brother. “If it's your blood we're boiling tonight along of our meat, well, all the better for me then.”  
  
“I'd not be half so cheerful if I were you,” Thorin teased warningly. “Say I slip and cut myself? Better me than you, you say, but who'll take the greater share of the hunting and the scouting afterward?”  
  
Frerin shrugged carelessly. “We'll be better off, I've no doubt, with your sense of direction. You're as like to lead us back to Moria as the Iron Hills.”  
  
“And too stubborn to say we'd got turned around,” Dwalin added slyly, one hand on Dis's leg to steady her as she cut into a half-broken branch above their heads. “He'd sooner sup with Durin's Bane than admit he's made a mistake.”  
  
“You're both rotten to the core,” Thorin declared, but he seemed to be trying very hard to repress a smile. “When have I ever led you astray?”  
  
“Recently or in years past?” Frerin asked, raising his head and grinning at his brother toothily. “How long have I got to compile a list – Balin! D'you have a quill and ink? I _might_ be able to have a scroll ready for reading by first watch if I go now - ”  
  
“Our inkwells ran dry two weeks ago, laddie, as you well know,” Balin said, stepping back and pressing against the tree he'd been hacking away at to see how much give was in the trunk. “I believe the cheer you let out on hearing lessons were canceled was heard in the Iron Hills.”  
  
“'Least they'll know we're coming,” Dís added. “So, if Thorin does get lost, they'll know to send a party for us.”  
  
“I'm getting it from all sides today, aren't I?” the prince complained to no one in particular, getting up and walking over to Dwalin. “Come along, lass,” he said, plucking his sister from Dwalin's shoulders and snapping the branch from the tree she'd been cutting like a twig. “Let's give your pony a break, eh?”  
  
“It's no trouble,” his friend said, but he helped Frerin chop the wood from the trees that had fallen. They worked on for close to an hour, sometimes in silence, but more often talking and joking to make the work easier and less tedious.

Dís was bundling the wood they'd gathered and tying it up with long leather cords for convenient transport. She'd run out of cords and looked around for her brothers, seeing only Frerin nearby. “I'm all out,” she complained, tugging on the sleeve of his coat.  
  
“I think the rest are in Mister Balin's pack,” he replied, shading his eyes and looking around for it. It was hanging from a tree branch, several feet from the ground, Dwalin probably placed it high above his head for safekeeping.  
  
“I'll get it!” Dís insisted, before Frerin could make a move to stop her. Her older brother got up and followed standing behind her as she raised her hands to climb into the tree. “I can do it!” she insisted.  
  
“I know you can,” Frerin agreed, putting his hands up before him in a gesture of surrender. “I'll just stand beneath you to catch it, no telling if he's got something breakable in there.”  
  
The young girl considered her brother's reasoning for a moment and, finding it sound, climbed nimbly up the tree, sliding forward on the branch just far enough that her weight wouldn't cause the thing to bend and crack. “Can you reach?” Frerin asked from the ground.  
  
That was a very good question. If she lay on her belly, she could just about nudge it over and she was so intent on her task that she failed to notice the approaching riders until there was an arrow pointed at her nose. With a squeak of surprise, Dís tumbled backward out of the tree and fell gracelessly into her brother's waiting arms. Both of them hit the forest floor with a thud and stared up at the huge horses that surrounded them, astride which rode six tall Elves. The bowman who'd startled the dwarfling seemed momentarily horrified that he'd raised a weapon to one he could now plainly see was a child and lowered his arms, signally his comrades to follow suit.  
  
The Elves spoke to one another in their language and Frerin lay on the grass with his arms tight around his sister, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. Their axes lay yards away and he cursed himself for moving about in potentially hostile territory unarmed – Thorin would never have done such a thing – but his sister with a ken beyond her years fumbled with her belt and pressed her little knife silently into his hand. It wasn't much, but it might give them time to escape, tell the others -  
  
“Where are the others of your kind, little ones?” the bowman who initially threatened Dís asked in a voice he probably thought was gentle. “You were not here alone.”  
  
Neither prince nor princess said a word, nor did they have time to, with a cry of rage, their kinfolk were gathered round, axes in hand and murder in their eyes. “Back away from them or it's your blood'll stain this green grass red,” Thorin growled, but the threat was an empty one. The skill of Elvish archers was legendary and they could have an arrow through his little sister's tender neck before he cleaved the arm off the one who would slay her.  
  
Miraculously, he was obeyed, the circle of horses parted and Thorin rushed to his siblings, pulling them to their feet and placing himself between them and the elves.  
  
“What do you mean, threatening wee ones like that?” Balin demanded, fire in his eyes and wrath in his voice. “Have you no honor?”  
  
The Elves had no answer, but the bowman who first approached and seemed to be their leader spoke for the group, “We do not suffer strangers to ransack our forests without cause.”  
  
“We have cause,” Thorin replied, his voice even, but steel glinted from his gaze. “Our people must journey far and we have need of fuel.”  
  
“You have more than enough wood to provide for you. We cannot allow you to take more.” The bowman seemed to think that answer would satisfy them, but the Dwarves were appalled. The meager amount of wood they gathered might provide for themselves and their families, but what of the others? Three parties set out to gather wood to bring back to camp; had they met with hostilities? Had the Elves they met been less circumspect than these?

“Again, I say we have need of more,” Thorin insisted, never lowering his gaze. The bile rose in his throat as it did every time he felt he was reduced to begging, but he quashed his pride down and added. “We have great need.”  
  
"Greed, perhaps,” one of the others said mildly. There was a natural serenity about the eyes and mouth, but the brows arched distastefully. “We cherish life, the air, the earth, the trees. You are a people who crawl in the darkness among dead stones and make war for sport.”  
  
Dwalin would have cut the lithe figure off his horse, but Thorin held up a hand and stayed the attack, though the insult stung as if he'd been pierced by one of their arrows. When the Elves looked at them, they did not see the mighty Longbeards, keepers of the Lonely Mountain, descendents of Durin the Deathless. They saw dirty vagabonds in patched and borrowed clothing. They did not know that they spoke to nobility, they assumed they spoke to thieves and drifters.  
  
Drift they might, but they were not thieves. “We provide for more than ourselves alone,” Thorin spat out through gritted teeth. “There are _many_ who would suffer if you can spare no more of your trees."  
  
The bowman's eyebrows rose in sudden comprehension and he breathed more than spoke, “You are the Dwarves of Erebor.”  
  
The tone the Elf used, galling in its pity, offended Thorin more than the insult they were paid by his fellow. Erebor was a mighty kingdom. Had the Greenwood Elves not turned away in their legions, it might still be great. Its people were proud and mighty. Again, these forest-dwellers had no concept of who they were speaking to.  
  
“Take what you need,” he said, taking up his reigns to ride away. “We will leave you to yourselves.”  
  
“You're very good at that,” Thorin said, unable to summon thank this race whose response to every crisis of their people was apathy. They would raise arms against dwarlings to spare a tree, but would not risk their lives for mortal souls. This attitude ran in complete opposition to the dwarrow spirit and this latest encounter further cemented in Thorin's mind that Elves were despicable. He wished they could take what they had already gathered and return to camp, but it was as he told the bowman: their need was great and his people could not suffer because of their prince's wounded pride.  
  
The Elves did not comment on his disrespect, just turned and disappeared into the forest. Thorin took up his saw and Frerin joined him, silent now, and uncomplaining as they worked. Dís sat close by them, but she kept on bundling their haul and there were no more words and no more laughter until they rejoined their people as the sun slipped below the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably not a GOOD thing to fuel Thorin's elf-hatred, but I couldn't help myself. I tried not to make the Elves come across as TOTAL bastards, they're just aggressively fond of trees and they think the Dwarves are like those people who go on picnics and leave empty plastic bottles all over the place. Also, this is completely not relevant to the story, but the elf that was unnecessarily bitchy to them was actually a lady. Writing in a vague Dwarf POV, I assume they'd have as much difficulty telling male and female Elves apart as most races have telling male and female Dwarves apart, so I kept the gender deliberately vague.


	4. 2

They sought refuge in the Iron Hills often in the first decades of their exile. It was a chance to rest from the road among others of their people. Aside from the comfort of residing within stone walls, there was a kinship among Dwarves that the exiles of Erebor craved.  
  
Whenever they traveled in the towns and cities of Men, they were always cast as outsider. Sometimes they were met with little more than curiosity, other times outright hostility. And there was no accounting for the same places yielding the same results. Some who at first scorned them might welcome them years later when they realized the work they did was good and honest. Others who found it amusing to have Dwarves in their midst might shutter their doors and windows against them if their earlier visit coincided with an early frost or a stillbirth. Then they were harbingers of ill-fate, bewitched, bad luck and cursed.  
  
Lives were saved in the Iron Hills as well, for they had Healers aplenty to look after their wounded and unwell. This particular year the princess and young prince were both abed with fever and all their people were fearful that one or both of them might never rise again. It was inevitable, the result of too many nights spent sleeping on hard ground in rainstorms, wearing clothes that never seemed to dry as the days got colder and colder.  
  
What began as a hacking cough and perpetually running nose from Frerin quickly worsened into shaking chills and a burning brow. Since they so often shared a bed, his sister began to display the same symptoms and it was not long before they were so weak they had to be carried into Náin’s halls, Frerin in Thráin’s arms and Dís in Thorin’s. Náin, the lord of the Iron Hills, saw them put in a guest room and attended to by his best healers, though their mother insisted on attending her children herself, with Master Óin close at hand.  
  
“I could do perfectly well for the lad and lass myself, milady,” he grumbled to Freya when the local healers were out of earshot. “If I had time enough and tools. Did you know, last even, I caught one of their old biddies trying to put an onion under the bed?”  
  
“Is that so?” Freya asked, bathing her daughter’s brow with a cool, damp cloth as Dís shivered with chills, though her face was red and burning. “And what did she think that would do?”  
  
“Draw off the bad humors!” Óin groused in disgust. “Had the nerve to fight me on it. “‘Well, Master Healer,’ says she, stubborn as you like. ‘If you leave the onion unpeeled at night, it’s black by morning, absorbing the sickness.’” Closing his eyes, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and exhaled gustily, “Says I, ‘Goodwife, you leave a loaf of _bread_ out nights, uncovered, it’s hard as a brick by morning and you don’t think there’s healing in that, do you?’”  
  
“What did she say?”  
  
“Nothing, just wandered off and took her damned vegetation with her. Mark me, I’ll not be surprised if she comes back tonight with a loaf of bread to put by the windowsill.” Óin muttered something about ‘superstitious Easterners,’ before he placed a hand beneath Frerin’s head, urging him to sit up and take a tonic.  
  
Frerin cringed at the touch, rolling on his side and keening into his pillow, “Ubùrush.” _Pain._ Then, more worryingly, “Urs. Urs.” _Fire. Fire_  
  
“I know it hurts, laddie,” the healer said gently, his manner beside a sickbed a sharp contrast to his usual brash ways. “But drink this down and the pain’ll be less.”  
  
Frerin only groaned and buried his face in his pillow even further so all that was visible of his head was his long dark hair, soaked with sweat.  
  
“Let me try,” Thorin said from the doorway, ignoring his mother’s exasperated sigh as he swiftly crossed the doorway into the sickroom.

“Thorin,” Freya brushed one of her long blonde braids over her shoulder in irritation. “I believe I told you to stay clear of here.”  
  
“If I haven’t caught sick by now, I don’t think I’m like to,” her son said stubbornly, sitting on the other side of the bed next to his brother. He was grown and their kind only became stronger with age, not weaker and less resilient as Men did. He drew Frerin beside him with an arm around his shoulders, but his brother only exchanged the pillow he was hiding in for Thorin’s tunic. “Come, nadadith,” he urged softly, getting Frerin to sit up. “Drink.”  
  
His younger brother obeyed, albeit reluctantly, swallowing Óin’s potion before he dropped down to his pillow, one arm still wrapped tight around Thorin’s waist. Their mother smiled wearily, noting how her daughter’s hand, which was curled tight in her coat skirts, loosened somewhat in sleep. Freya dried her daughter’s brow and cheeks, stroking her damp hair as if her touch would draw the sickness out more effectively than the onions of the Iron Hills.  
  
“They should sleep sound for now,” Óin nodded, satisfied for the moment. “And sleep’s the best healing for them.”  
  
“Thank you,” Freya said warmly as her tired, sleepless voice would allow. “Your services does you honor, sir, and we are grateful for it. But as there is nothing more to be done, I would have you return to your brother and rest awhile.”  
  
The healer bowed and gathered up his tools, pausing in the doorway to look back at his patients. “You’ll summon me at once if there is any change?” he asked. “I’ll not have those Healers as can’t tell a bleeding bowl from a soup pot left to care for those bairns.”  
  
The princess nodded and reassured him that of course he would be the first they called upon to aid the dwarflings and there was no one they trusted more. Óin was especially attached to the children born shortly before and after they fled their homeland; he saw most of them into this world and prayed he would be many years dead before they left it.  
  
“Ama,” Thorin said once they healer left, looking at his mother critically over the expanse of the bed. “If you would rest, I can look over them while they sleep.” His beautiful, normally vibrant mother looked older than he’d ever seen her; her eyes were creased with care and her golden blonde hair was shot through with silver that glittered in the candlelight like mithril armor. His mother was a strong dwarrow-woman, but even the hardiest warrior needed to lay down his arms and rest sometimes.  
  
One sturdy hand, bereft of the rings that were a constant presence on her fingers since his earliest memories, traced a line down Thorin’s face. Freya sold her jewels one by one over the years or else traded them - some that were worth a king’s ransom - for sacks of flour and fresh eggs. When Thrór found out, he was furious and railed at her in a voice that woke half the camp.  
  
Freya withstood the verbal assault silently until she said, in a voice as low and steady as his had been thunderous and quaking, “If I could feed my children on emeralds and sapphires, I would, but as I cannot, you will permit me this. And if you _ever_ mean to deny me my way of providing for my children again, I shall strike you dead where you stand. The day you value rubies more than the lives of your grandchildren is the day I cease to call you King.”  
  
It was the only time father and daughter-in-law ever quarreled publicly. They were widely known to be enormously fond of one another. Something in the princess’s words cut through the King’s madness and although he did not seek her forgiveness for his words, neither did he punish her for her insolence. He simply walked away, repelling all company, until he rejoined his family by morning and they said no more about it.  
  
It was a sign of how very tired his mother was that she took Thorin’s suggestion to heart. “Very well,” she said, rising from the bed with a grace that belied her exhaustion. “I know they are in good hands with you.”

Thorin watched over them for hours as they slept fitfully, once stilling Dís as she tossed and turned fitfully, exhausting herself fighting with the bedclothes. Thorin sat fully on the bed, his sister cradled in his arms and his brother flush against his side. Some days Frerin looked more grown than not, but today, his face drawn and pale, he seemed a child once again, in need of looking after. If Thorin could give his own health to see them revived, he would do it in a heartbeat. His brother and sister were fixed points, beacons of light in the darkness. If he lost them, he knew not what he would do with himself.  
  
Their father came unexpectedly into the room after darkness fell and Thorin was surprised and pleased to see him. The suffering of his children pained Thráin so deeply that he could not stand to look upon them and so drew away until such time as they were well again. “They’re sleeping,” Thorin said quietly. “Which Óin says is good for healing.”  
  
Thráin seemed not to hear his eldest son, nor did he draw close to the bed to look at his younger children. With his hands balled into fists at his side, he walked up and down the carpet in a whirl of emotions Thorin did not understand. “Adad?” Thorin asked, nervously, waiting for a response. When his father replied, he did not look at his son.  
  
“Náin has offered...to foster your brother and sister,” Thráin said, with such apathy he might have been talking about the weather. “When the winter is over and we move from this place, he would let them remain behind with the other dwarflings who are unsuited to travel.”

  
Thorin couldn’t believe his ears. “We have traveled for nearly two _decades_ and there has been no such offer made,” he kept his voice low for fear of waking his siblings. “Unsuited to travel - one can catch a fever as easily in the Iron Hills as anywhere else. Why does he offer this now?”  
  
Thráin’s eyes flickered to his youngest child, so still and small in her brother’s arms. “He wishes to make an alliance of our houses. His son is young, still, but - ”  
  
The son understood immediately what his father was not saying and could not bear to hear the words come from his father’s lips. “Dís is a _child_ ,” he hissed, unconsciously drawing his sister closer to him. “What of her choice?”  
  
“She would not be alone,” his father said, half to himself. “She would have her brother, we discussed that. She will choose to do her duty, when the time comes. Such an alliance would be wise, since my uncle’s passing, we would again awaken a strong bond of kinship between our people.”  
  
The words _alliance_ , _duty_ , _kinship_ were all known to him, but they passed by Thorin’s uncomprehending ears as if his father spoke a foreign tongue. Marriages between powerful houses were not unusual, but _always_ the decision was made when a dwarrow-woman was of age and could give her consent, not schemed about in back rooms by fathers playing at kingdom-building with their children as pawns.  
  
“You are her _father_ ,” Thorin said, setting his sister down on the bed reluctantly and crossing the room to confront Thráin. “These are not a father’s words - ”  
  
“I am thinking like a king!” Thráin exploded, pulling his son to him by his shirt and hissing in his face, “A king! As I will be someday and so will you, with the Maker’s blessing. I have more to concern myself with than the wishes of my children alone.” He let go of Thorin’s shirt and paced away, disgusted more by himself or his son it was impossible to say. “If we have an alliance with the Iron Hills, many of our people could settle here permanently. We would be in a good position to retake the mountain when the time comes.”  
  
 _When the time comes_. The way his forebears spoke, they made it sound as though recapturing Erebor would happen any day. The dragon’s smoke was still seen curling high above the Lonely Mountain and until that smoke vanished, they would have no guarantee that the quest would be anything more than folly. Perhaps that was how a king thought, eyes and mind ever on ultimate glory and perhaps he was no king, but Thorin could only see the look on his sister’s face when they left her behind and the vision filled him with rage and grief to the very core of his being.

“I will not leave them,” he said stubbornly. “Have you spoken to my mother about this?”  
  
Thráin laughed humorlessly. “Your mother would have us die together in the wilderness and count it a blessing. No, I have not said a word to her. I thought I could count on your support in this.”  
  
“Then you do not know me at all,” Thorin said, his eyes hard as flint, his expression stony. “I would spit in Náin’s face and never see the Iron Hills again before I would let you take them from me. For they are my life as surely as they are hers. We have lost so much, would you tear us asunder again?”  
  
Throughout his son’s speech, Thráin’s hands were forever twitching, fingers of one endlessly turning the ring on another. Unlike his mother, his father had not sold off all of his jewelry. The ring that appeared on his hand, the ring that used to rest on his grandfather’s, was ever-present now. An heirloom of a bygone age that caused the king and his son as much torment as it brought them solace. At last, as though some great war within himself was fought and won, Thráin replied, “I will...speak with your grandfather. And you will later know our decision.”  
  
Thorin breathed a sigh of relief once his father was out of sight. His grandfather would _never_ let him leave Dís and Frerin behind, for he loved them more than the waking world. When the invocation of his grandchildren was enough to save his mother from a charge of treason, Thorin knew the King would not be voluntarily separated from them. Nevertheless, he kept watch over them all night, only leaving to eat and sleep when his father returned with his mother, looked him full in the face and told him to get some rest. If the King agreed to the foolish scheme, Thorin knew his father would not so easily meet his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have some Khuzdul in this chapter! And more Bad Daddy!Thrain. Guy just can't catch a break from me. Anyway, the Khuzdul comes from the Dwarrow Scholar's handy English-Khuzdul Dictionary, which can be accessed from his website http://dwarrowscholar.mymiddleearth.com/ along with other great theories about Dwarven culture.
> 
> Quick translation of the words I used and didn't translate in the fic: "nadadith" = "little brother," "ama" = a shortened form of "amad" meaning "mother," and "adad" = "father."
> 
> ETA: I was watching clips from The Hobbit on YouTube and felt really pleased with myself when I saw Oin looking angry at an onion in the Rivendell dinner scene. NOW WE KNOW WHY!


	5. 1

The victory over their enemies was swift and decisive, the ales flowed and the tables of the mead hall groaned under the combined weight of arms and roasts set out before the returning heroes. Thorin, seated now with the other young heroes, comported himself well and Dwalin _insisted_ that getting properly drunk was the only way to celebrate coming out alive from his first real campaign.  
  
Feasting was as common for Dwarves as fighting, in good years. The greatest festivities were reserved for three particular events: Durin’s Day, weddings and childbirth. More common were the feasts before and after a great battle and, of course, funeral observations. Happily, this evening’s celebration would be followed by few funerals. Their warriors fought well and littered the ground with orcish corpses while most of their men who had fallen were even now well on the road to recovery. The mood was joyous and boisterous, the menfolk, still riding high on the violence of the day before, were singing and laughing and embracing nearly everyone they met. The wives and other dwarrowdams prepared the feast and boasted of the accomplishments of their brothers, husbands and sons to anyone who would listen.  
  
The unmarried girls served the meal and kept the beer flowing - this was considered a good time for matchmaking for the young folk for their blood and passions were still inflamed by the excitement of battle. Even if no marriage vows were destined to be exchanged, the doors were constantly being swung open by a steady stream of lads and lassies who either took a shine to one another on short acquaintance or made good on years of flirting and sideways glances.  
  
Dís was decades too young to even think of courting and by rights should have been seated by her mother and father. It was a rare that they looked at one another with smiles and love once again, as they did this night. The thrill of battle seemed to clear Thráin’s troubled mind, if only for a short time. Freya looked at her husband, so fresh from the battlefield that the blood of his enemies was still under his fingernails, with such pride that their children could almost forget the arguing, the endless worry and the long silences that made up most of their days and nights on the road.  
  
If she’d known how quickly the day would come when her parents would no longer look at one another with the same tenderness between them, when she would never see her father again - not because he’d fallen in battle, but because he willingly left them behind in his grief and madness - she would have remained where she was. Dís would have painted a portrait in her mind of that affection and called it forward when it became hard to remember that her parents _were_ happy, once. But she was young and she was antsy since Thorin and Frerin were drinking with the other lads and she’d been, for all intents and purposes, left on her own.  
  
So she slipped away from her mother’s side and went wandering in search of her brothers. Surrounded as she was by tall, stocky warriors, this was not going to be an easy task. Though she was on the cusp of adolescence, she was in every way still a little dwarfling and had not enjoyed the growth spurt that recently struck Frerin, causing him to absolutely _tower_ over her, which he loved and Dís hated. Her one consolation was that he might be tall enough to swing a hammer and use an anvil, but he was not old or skilled enough to take part in battle and, in that, he was as much a child here as she was.  
  
“Psst! Hey, sapphire-eyes!” A pretty dwarrow-lass with a reddish brown beard beckoned her over with a toss of her head. “Do me a favor?” The young woman had one arm thrown protectively around the waist of a rather inebriated fellow with an undeniable look of excitement on his face. “Take this to the lad over there, end of the row with the black hair for me, hmm? It’s whiskey, so don’t go drinking it!”

Her lad’s eyes narrowed and focused as he looked at Dís with a frown, then he nudged the girl who sought to drag him away from the hall. “You can’t!” he whispered urgently. “That’s King Thrór’s granddaughter, that is! She’s royalty!”  
  
“I don’t mind,” Dís shrugged, holding out her hands for the mug. Her mother instilled in all her children the notion that to serve their people, they must not shirk from helping a fellow creature, bringing food and blankets to those who had need of them or, in this case, drink to warriors who defended them bravely and deserved their respect.  
  
“Ah, you’re a jewel!” the older lass grinned, ruffling Dís’s hair fondly. “C’mon, love,” she said to her companion. “I’ll not let another steal _my_ treasure from the battlefield while I play barmaid.” And the two of them dashed off for the nearest door, giggling madly.  
  
The whiskey went to a handsome young warrior with black hair braided down his back and two neat plaits descending down the sides of his mouth. His dark brows were thick over his prominent forehead and he smiled warmly when Dís presented him with his cup. “Thank you me fine wee lass,” he said, tilting his head toward her graciously. His voice was deep and rich, with a brogue distinctive of the Broadbeams of the Blue Mountains.  
  
“Thank you for your valiant combat,” she replied as her mother told her to say.  Dís bowed her head in turn and went to walk away when the warrior stopped her.  
  
“Hey now, what’s that behind your ear?” he asked, raising a brow. Frowning Dís ran her fingers along the backs of both ears, finding nothing at all there but the edges of her earrings. “Come closer, let me have a look.” Not seeing any reason to refuse him, she walked up to the warrior and in one swift motion, he moved a hand behind her left ear and produced a shiny silver coin.  
  
“How’d you do that?” she demanded, looking absolutely delighted. She hadn’t noticed a thing in his hands all the while and his sleeves were rolled to the elbow.  
  
“Well, I could tell you, but you’d be sworn to secrecy,” he said, leaning his head forward conspiratorially and holding the coin out before her. “How’s about I buy your silence?”  
  
“I won’t tell,” she assured him, leaning closer in turn and lowering her voice. “I can keep a secret.”  
  
The young dwarf regarded her doubtfully. “Still think it’s best you keep the coin,” he said, pressing it into her now empty hands. “I can conjure dozens of ‘em.”  
  
Dís slipped the coin in her pocket, more excited to learn the trick of pulling silvers from nowhere than she was about the money she now possessed. “Alright,” she said impatiently. “So what’s the secret?”  
  
“The secret is,” he whispered, leaning so close his beard tickled her ear. “ _Magic_.”  
  
The dwarrow girl pulled away and regarded him doubtfully. “It is _not_ ,” she denied, looking put-out that she’d been cheated the real explanation.  
  
“It most certainly is!” the dwarf protested. “Or if it isn’t, see if you can’t figure it out on your own. Keep that with you to practice by and if our paths cross again someday, little lass, you tell me if you’ve sorted it out.”  
  
“ _There_ you are, little sister!” Frerin called, hopping over one grey bearded fellow who was passed out between the benches. “I was looking all over for you.”  
  
“Really?” Dís asked skeptically. “Or were you just looking for more beer?”  
  
“Can it be both?” he asked, throwing an arm around her and kissing the top of her head. He smiled at the dark-haired warrior and asked, “She’s not causing you any trouble, is she?”  
  
Dís struck him hard on the arm before the dwarf from the Ered Luin could give answer. “I’m not any trouble,” she said, trying not to smile at his teasing. “Like as not Thorin and Dwalin sent you to find me ‘cos you were hogging all the ale.”  
  
Frerin threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, and you’re my keeper now, are you?”  
  
“I’ve _always_ been your keeper,’ his sister said proudly. “I’m brighter than you are, Ama always said so.”  
  
“I don’t need brains,” he replied airily. “I get by on my good looks.”

The foreign dwarf’s eyes were lit up with mirth and he laughed aloud. “If you weren’t so different looking, I’d swear you were me two little cousins come all the way from the Blue Mountains. Two lads they are, they could be your mirror image. The older one plays a pipe too,” he added, looking at the tin whistle sticking out of Frerin’s coat pocket. “You know ‘Rising of the Moon,’ lad?”  
  
“I should hope I do,” Frerin replied with a smile. “You’ve a mind to hear it, sir?”  
  
“Indeed I do, if you’ll indulge me.”  
  
“It’d be an honor,” he said. The drink made him confident for Frerin was not much of a musician. He’d no sooner got the pipe to his lips before he frowned. “How’s it start, again?”  
  
A strong, clear whistling answered him. Dís did not know how to play an instrument, one of the many lessons that went by the wayside in her education, but she had a good ear for music and her notes were near to perfect. Frerin nodded, once again took up his whistle and blew the beginning of the song. The dwarf they'd been conversing with sang and once again, Dís was enthralled. He had a strong, deep voice, very like Thorin's (and her brother did not sing _nearly_ as much as he ought to, in her opinion), so when he patted his knee, she was happy to perch upon it and listen.  
  
“Oh! Then tell me stout young dwarrow, tell me why you hurry so.  
‘Hush ma bouchal, hush and listen,’ and his cheeks were all a-glow.  
‘I bear orders from the ravens, get you ready quick and soon.  
For the pikes must be together by the risin’ of the moon.’  
  
By the rising of the moon, by the risin’ of the moon.  
For the pikes must be together by the risin’ of the moon.”  
  
Liquor brought out the best in some, made them quicker to smile or laugh, loosened the tongue, bolstered the will and made festivals and celebrations double cheerful for its inclusion. There were some individuals, however, in which drinking brought out their worst traits. It embittered the spirit, flared jealousy and made the tongue grow sharp and cruel. Two such dwarrows, Ironfists who journeyed far to partake in the battle, watched the nearby exchange with a mocking interest.  
  
“Durin’s Folk won’t send their own sons out to fight their wars, so they call upon ours,” one slurred to the other once the song was over and Dís made ready to go off with her brother.  
  
His compatriot laughed, “Aye, and they use their wee daughters as serving wenches.” He took another great gulp of beer and added, “I hear they’re all poor as paupers. King’s halfway mad and his son’s wife sells herself out as a whore in the villages of Men to keep ‘em in silver enough to make weapons.”  
  
Both of the young heirs of Durin the bold insults to their family’s pride and rounded on the pair behind them. They were tall as Frerin, but much broader. The dwarrow-lad, bolstered by drink and anger, did not care that the odds were not in his favor. This was a matter of honor and Frerin would be thought honorable.  
  
Willing all his strength into his fists he punched one of them in the head and managed to knock him backward off the bench. “I’d hold my tongue if I was you,” he growled, pain radiating up his arm, but he neither flinched, nor made any indication that he’d hurt himself at all.  
  
“Oh, you’ll fight now, will you?” the other glared, rising from his seat and giving Frerin a hard shove that made him lose his balance. “Won’t take a stand on the battlefield, but he’ll get his dander up when he hears words about it, sure enough.”  
  
“Your ways are a mite strange, friend of the South,” the warrior they shared the song with interjected speculatively, catching Frerin before he fell to the floor. “You’d have a lad of sixty-five going off to fight your battles for you? What does that say about _your_ honor, I wonder?”

The Ironfist pair did not seem to have a response for that, so they ignored the Broadbeam’s very sound logic. Both of them were on their feet now and Frerin was both outmatched and outnumbered - well, outmatched, at least, since Dís evened the numbers by throwing her good right arm into the fray. It did not follow the proper rules of engagement as Dwalin and Thorin taught her when they sparred, but since she was at a disadvantage, she did not see the harm in fighting a little dirty. The Dwarf who shoved her brother was very surprised when a small, but strong fist struck him right in the place menfolk were most sensitive and he was on his knees before her.  
  
“You little _whelp_ ,” he snarled, reaching for the front of her coat and dragging her toward him. “I’ll teach you not to enter fights as you aren’t ready for.”  
  
“Don’t you touch her!” Frerin shouted, but the other Dwarf tackled him to the ground before he could land another blow, wrenching his arms painfully behind his back.  
  
“Look at this lot!” he crowed mockingly. “Wouldn’t last a minute on the battlefield! He’d be dead as last Durin’s Day Eve, him and the rest of his family of cowards - ”  
  
He was cut off by a cry from his friend; Dís bit the hand of the Dwarf who held her so hard she broke the skin and he dropped her. Then arms much more powerful than hers were pummelling him so ferociously, for one dazed instant, he feared the enemy had broken into the mead hall and were giving them the routing they escaped on the battlefield.  
  
The pressure on Frerin’s arms and back lifted just as abruptly as his sister had been dropped; the Dwarf from the West joined in the fray, giving his temporary captor a good hard kick in the teeth. Frerin saw immediately who it was who came to his sister’s rescue and felt hot lances of shame running up and down his back: Thorin.  
  
His brother’s face was a mask of fury, Frerin imagined he looked much the same as he had facing down the packs of orcs who threatened the land. He ought to feel gratitude that his brother noticed them and came to their aid, but he only felt the sting of embarrassment that he could not defend their family’s name and reputation on his own - by the Maker, his little sister got more licks in than he did.  
  
Thorin did not speak as he fought for his was an anger beyond speech. He did not know what venomous words were exchanged between the Ironfists, all he saw were his younger brother and sister being attacked by drunkards and his vision swam red. Beside him a dwarf he only vaguely recognized from the battle quickly and efficiently knocked the other one senseless. Thorin wanted to do more than just leave them in a bleeding, uncomfortable heap on the floor, he wanted to pound their heads into the slate so that their hateful faces would be unrecognizable when their families came forward to claim the bodies, but he restrained himself. These were supposed to be their allies after all and a small brawl at a feast could be overlooked, but murder would not be so lightly taken.  
  
His knuckles red, Thorin turned from the bodies at his feet to his brother and sister. Until he leapt into the fray, he’d been feeling the effects of the drink pleasantly, but seeing his kinfolk attacked made him trod a quick path to sobriety. “Are you alright?” he asked, looking them over critically.  
  
“Fine,” Dís scowled. Frerin said nothing, just looked at his feet and picked up his pipe which fell to the floor and dented. Hardly mattered, he was a rotten musician.  
  
Thorin frowned at the silence from his ordinarily talkative sibling, but rather than commenting, he extended a hand to the black haired dwarf who was about to go back to his whiskey. “Thank you for coming to their aid,” he said.  
  
“Weren't no trouble at all,” he assured him, clasping his hand briefly. “Remind me of me own kin, they do, and I'd have done no less for them under the circumstances. Shameful, what they said 'bout you and yours, but some folks got bile for blood and stones for hearts.”

Thorin’s lips quirked, but the expression could not be called a smile. Even among their fellow dwarves, there ran a vein of disdain for the Longbeards of Erebor. Some thought they had their due comeuppance when the Worm lay their mountain to waste. It was jealousy for what they had that made others revel in all they’d lost, a wickedness that built itself up on the bent backs of the fallen.  
  
“I’d have your name, sir,” he requested, cordially. “Not many would have done the same for strangers.  
  
“Name’s Bifur,” he replied, giving Thorin a short bow. “Son of Bilfur. Miner by trade, warrior by inclination. At your service.”  
  
Bending his own neck respectfully the prince replied, “Thorin, son of Thráin, at yours.”  
  
“And I’m Dís and my other brother is Frerin,” the lass piped up, bobbing her head in turn. “Thank you...though I don’t know why you didn’t use your magic on ‘em. If magic’s what you are.”  
  
“Ah, that’s the _real_ secret, lass,” Bifur winked. “Me magic only works to help folks, not to hurt ‘em. Strange, but true. Keep that coin on you, practice up.”  
  
“Coin?” Thorin asked her and his sister produced it promptly.  
  
“Pulled it out from behind my ear,” she explained. “I think it’s just a trick, he says it’s magic. And Frerin played all the right notes on his pipe for him.”  
  
Her eldest brother arched a brow at his younger who was tucking his pipe into his coat and seemed determined not to look at any of them. “Well, that _is_ magic,” Thorin replied with a genuine smile this time. With one hand on each of his siblings’ shoulders, he made to lead them back to their parents’ and inclined his head in gratitude toward the miner again.  
  
“Look, this might be forward of me, likely none of me business,” Bifur said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “ I can’t claim to represent me people. Nor am I of a great or noble house. But if, if it’s Mahal’s will, I would have us meet again. Our village in the Blue Mountains isn’t what I’d call grand, but there's room enough for those who wish to settle. Won't be home for you, but a place to rest your head all the same. Among pleasant company, even.”  
  
Thorin hardly knew what to say. Their constant movement was as much his fault as anything, ever since he and his father quarrelled over the question of leaving his brother and sister to be fostered in the Iron Hills, they never stayed in a place longer than a year, at the most. His grandfather avoided the East and since the troubles started up the the Orcs, they needed to stay close at hand to fight to defend a territory that was not theirs. Maybe when the fighting was over...maybe. It was a continent away from Erebor, which was a point against it, but if there were more like this good dwarf among their numbers, it might prove suitable for a time.  
  
“I will tell my grandfather,” Thorin said, not quite sure how to respond to such an offer. “Again, I thank you.”

Dwalin appeared then, demanding to know why they hadn’t left another scoundrel for him. Dís lit up and she proceeded to tell him all about the brawl, adding many gorey details that may or may not have been accurate, but that their cousin listened to with rapt attention all the same. It gave Thorin the chance to squeeze the back of his brother’s neck and ask why he looked so sullen.  
  
“They called me a coward,” he muttered, hands clenching into fists. “Because I didn’t fight.”  
  
His brother’s eyes narrowed and he looked back at the heap they’d left, only just stirring from their slump. “That’s nonsense, you’re not a coward, you’re too young. Would we have sent Dís to take up a sword?”  
  
That was not what his brother wanted to hear. “I think I’d be a bit better off than _Dís_. I’m only a few years off from being of age. I ought to have fought, s’not right I stayed behind.”  
  
“Don’t take it so hard,” Thorin advised, slinging an arm around his brother’s narrow shoulders. Someday they’d fill out and they’d fight side by side, but today was not that day. “There’ll be other battles, the Orcs grow bold and it’s up to us to beat the filth back. You’ll be a warrior before you know it - only take more care in your battle training than your music lessons. At least I can say you wield a sword with more skill than you play upon the pipe.”  
  
Frerin’s familiar wry smile was back. “Aye, I treat my weapons a bit better than my pipe,” he said, producing the dented whistle. “That’s done for, don’t you think?”  
  
His brother laughed, loud and deep. “I’d say so. What a pity,” he replied without conviction.  
  
“Ah, you can’t fool me brother, you’ll cry yourself to sleep every night without my music to soothe you.”  
  
“Oh, without a doubt,” Thorin rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s better for the nerves than that thing shrieking in your ear at midnight.”  
  
“I don’t play at midnight,” Frerin protested.  
  
“That must be your snoring, then,” he amended with a quick grin.  
  
“You’re  a _bastard_ ,” his brother said affectionately. He tucked the ruined whistle into his pocket and wrapped his arm around Thorin’s waist. “Any grog left? ‘Cos I’m feeling _entirely_ too sober at the moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about five to seven years before Azanulbizar, unlike the books, it seems like the movie has it so Thror's beheading is not the cause of the War of the Orcs and Dwarves, but the culmination of a war, so I imagine little skirmishes were taking place years beforehand. "The Rising of the Moon" is an Irish ballad written by John Keegan Casey about a battle during the Rebellion of 1798, but I dwarfed it up a little bit. The version I have Bifur singing is based directly on the Clancy Brothers recording, so give it a listen, if you're so inclined, it's on YouTube.


	6. + 1

No one ever remarked on it. No one ever said, ‘Why Thorin, how well you’ve done, caring for your brother and sister!’ His actions were hardly noteworthy, after all. They were his kin. No Dwarf would have done less.  
  
If someone did raise the point that Thorin minded his siblings admirably or, in an attempt to pay him a compliment, remarked that they were lucky to have him, he would have looked at them askance. Thorin did not believe his brother and sister were particularly lucky to have him for an older brother, but he thanked the Maker every day that he was so blessed as to have _them_.  
  
The Orcs grew bolder by the day; unlike goblins, this foul race could fight by daylight and they sought to overtake more and more land. In years past, scattered marauding troops would ransack villages and unwary travelers, but they were more unified in their strikes now. It almost seemed, Thrór remarked not long ago, as if someone with a dark purpose was amassing an army of the dread creatures.  
  
Their king’s thoughts grew darker even as the summer bore down upon them. Was he already wondering how they would survive another winter? Did he mull over the rumors that Orcs were overtaking Moria, the greatest of the old Dwarf cities? Or was he again mourning the loss of their own kingdom so many years ago?  
  
Thorin was finishing off his midday meal - the sun was burning down on them so hot work was at a standstill until the afternoon made the heat less intense. He removed all of his outer clothing until he wore only his tunic and trousers, already sweating through the thin material. Dís and Frerin finished their meal of bread, dried meat and cheese before he did and chased one another to the nearby lake, hoping to cool off it its waters. They were warned off by their father who was trying to catch eels with others of their camp. Their splashing would frighten the fish and had to wait.  
  
A warm hand dropped down onto Thorin’s shoulder and he looked up to see his mother standing above him, a plate of food in her hands. “Take this to your grandfather, see if you can’t get him to have a little something,” she gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re the only one he listens to.”  
  
It was an order, not a request, but Thorin hesitated. Long had they relied on his influence to draw his grandfather out of himself, but always he felt he was not up to the task. The changes in their king’s moods had more to do with sheer dumb luck and Thrór’s own willpower than any gift of the gab Thorin might possess.  
  
But it was his duty. And the day Thorin, son of Thráin, did not perform his duty would be the day he laid down and died. The prince stood, exchanging his empty plate for the full one his mother held. Freya smiled at her son, eyes crinkling as she looked him up and down. “Just when did you get so _tall_ , my wee bairn?” she asked playfully.  
  
Thorin smiled back wanly. “I’ve been taller than you for years, Ama,” he replied. “You just weren’t paying attention.”  
  
He meant the words as a jest, not an accusation, but the laugh lines around his mother’s eyes faded and she looked incredibly regretful. Immediately, Thorin regretted his poor phrasing; his mother had a will of iron and did more to keep their group of exiles sane and provided for than any of the royal family, but words were stone-etched. No matter how much you wanted to, once spoken, it would take time and effort for the hurtful ones to fade away entirely. And there were always residual scars.  
  
Before her son could apologize, Freya patted his arm again and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Heart heavy as a stone in his chest, he slowly made his way to his grandfather. Thrór sat alone at the very edge of the camp, back turned on his people.

Thorin approached him from the side, as he might a skittish pony, so he would not be alarmed at the approach and attack unprovoked. It pained him to take such precautions with someone he loved so much, but when his grandfather was in the throes of the sickness, there was no accounting for his behavior. Thorin stopped a few feet from him and offering the plate, “Will you eat something?”  
  
Silence. He might have been speaking to a carved statue, but the lines in his grandfather’s brow were too fine-etched to have been wrought from stone. His shoulders too were slumped in a manner one would never see in statuary. With a pang, Thorin remembered the immense stone sculptures in the Great Hall, proud kings as tall and strong as the mountain itself carved from the rock, their helms and armor uncracked after centuries within the mountain.  
  
Dwarves were not made of stone, despite the rumors. They could be cut and bled and defeated. “Gamil-adad,” Thorin asked again, daring to step closer. “Will you eat? Please?”  
  
It was as though he hadn’t heard him. With a heavy heart, Thorin turned away, mind already imagining the look of disappointment on his mother’s face when she realized he failed in his task. The sun caught the edge of the metal plate as he made to go and its glint caught Thrór’s attention as the words and presence of his grandson failed to do scant seconds earlier.  
  
With a ferocity that belied his age and former demeanor, Thrór rounded on the younger dwarf, knocking the offered food from his hand and tackling him to the ground. “ **Do you steal from me?** ” he demanded, perverting their sacred language with his mad claims. “ ** _Thief_**.”  
  
Eyes wide, cursing himself that he hadn't given his grandfather a wider berth, Thorin managed to choke out, “ **No. Never. Grandfather, I would never.** ”  
  
“ **Liar** ,” he hissed in his grandson’s face. Closer he loomed, closer and closer, until their noses were nearly touching and all the king could see were his grandson’s blue eyes that were filled with fear.  
  
Remembering himself, Thrór withdrew, hands going slack, them numb as he threw himself away from his grandson. Thorin got shakily to his feet, wiping his sweaty palms on his tunic, already stained with the meal he failed to provide. He faced down Orcs and Goblins in combat, but nothing - _nothing_ \- frightened him as much as the worst manifestations of his grandfather’s illness.  
  
Thrór remained on the ground looking utterly wretched, as if he wanted to be sick. One hand went to his brow and he covered his eyes, ashamed for his grandson to look upon him. “I am so sorry,” he desperately apologized, his voice hardly audible.  
  
“No one saw,” Thorin said, glancing around quickly to assure himself that they were utterly alone. If their people saw how unwell their king truly was, it would sever the tenuous thread that bound them all together. “It’s alright.”  
  
The King-in-Exile lowered his hand and looked at his grandson with a haunted expression. “Oh, my dear, _dear_ boy,” he said sadly. “It is not.”  
  
Without a word, Thorin extended a hand to his grandfather, a sign of both forgiveness and resignation. Thrór took it and stood, waving the prince off when he bent to collect the ruined food. “Leave it, leave it,” he hesitated only a second before patting Thorin on the arm with a gentleness that made his earlier violence seem as if it belonged to a different dwarf. “I’ll clean up my own mess.”  
  
Thorin had cleaning of his own to do and he trudged away toward a quiet, isolated stream that fed into the lake. There he removed his tunic and set to scrubbing the stains out. Work was a balm like no other. If he concentrated hard enough on this mundane task, the panic rising like bile in his throat would fade. If he willed it to, his heart would stop hammering against his ribcage like a drumbeat and his eyes would stop burning in that prickly, humiliating way they were now.  
  
The water blurred as he stared at it and he was grateful for his long hair sliding forward and covering his face. Hopefully he was in so secluded a place that he would not be bothered. If someone was to come along, he would have to explain how his shirt got so filthy in such a short length of time and by _explain_ , he would naturally have to _lie_ and Thorin was a dreadful liar.

In the midst of his bout of worrying, something soft and warm that smelled of his younger brother wrapped itself around his head and Frerin’s voice sounded from close-by. “If you’re doing the washing up, mind giving that a soak?”  
  
Thorin raised his head and removed the shirt that was covering his eyes. Frerin was practically skipping across the grass toward him, Dís at his side sporting a _very_ pleased smile on her face. Thorin held his brother’s clothing threateningly over the coursing water. “I’ll toss it downstream, a nice tumble over the rocks should set it to rights.”  
  
“Too cruel!” his brother declares and Dís just grinned harder, shoving him on the arm.  
  
“What’d you expect, tossing your clothes at him like that?” she asks, her eyes all innocence and Thorin could feel himself smiling, for he knew her far too well to believe that look. The whole scene seemed to be far away, like he was watching it from outside his body and it simply wasn’t fair. Why must he _feel_ it when his grandfather was out of his mind with rage, but being with his siblings was like watching a theatrical?  
  
“You little _liar_!” Frerin declared and he’s teasing, his eyes merry, but the words made Thorin want to flinch. “You’re the one who threw the damn thing!”  
  
“Only because you threw it at me first and I won’t be covered with your stink longer than I have to.”  
  
Her brother threw back his head and laughed, tugging her braids even as she batted his hand away. “You smell just as ripe as I do, namadith! But we can change all that soon enough.” He dropped down to a crouch beside Thorin and tugged his elder brother to his feet. “They’ve caught eels enough for days, let’s have a swim. What do you say, washerwoman?”  
  
Thorin’s smile was wan and insincere and Frerin knew, he always did. Not the particulars, Thorin would cut out his tongue before he told him, but he could tell when his brother was at the end of his rope and did his best to pull him to safety. Before Thorin could protest, he was raised to his feet, Frerin on one side and Dís on the other. She hung on his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder, one of her smaller hands entwining with his own. Frerin took him by the arm and left both of their shirts on the ground. Finally, Thorin began to feel himself slide back into his own body.  
  
“We can get new ones if they’re pilfered,” he shrugged carelessly when his brother looked back at their clothes. “Dori owes me a favor.”  
  
Did they have fabric enough for new tunics, Thorin wanted to ask, but kept that thought to himself. Frerin’s carefree way was rare among their number and his brother would not sacrifice his spirited manner for practicality. Then he would not be Frerin.  
  
“Can’t make you a new tunic if there’s no material to stitch together,” their sister pointed out and Thorin regarded her fondly, for she was practical enough for all of them.

Frerin laughed and let go of his brother’s arm, getting his sister over his shoulder in one quick swipe even as she shrieked in indignation. “Just have to borrow one of _yours_ , then,” he said, making a show of eyeing the fabric of her own tunic. “Why, bless my beard, this is one of _mine_ already, I see!”  
  
“What beard?” Dís asked, tugging the scruff on her brother’s chin that was not yet long enough to braid.  
  
Thorin actually laughed at that, “Oh, an insult indeed. Surely you won’t stand for such insolence, brother?”  
  
“Certainly not!” Frerin exclaimed, taking off at full speed for the lake. “Vengeance!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “I will have vengeance!”  
  
Dís was laughing so hard she almost forgot to close her mouth when Frerin flung her into the cold water. She surfaced an instant later, shaking her long wet hair out of her eyes. Frerin bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, fists raised over his head in triumph. “Ha!” he crowed. “I’m _invincible!_ ”  
  
Frerin’s joie de vivre was absolutely infectious, Thorin found his dark mood falling away and in its place came a mischievous impulse that he gave into. Without a word of warning, he shoved his younger brother hard into the lake. Frerin, not forewarned, swallowed a mouthful of water and came up sputtering and choking. Dís, caring and compassionate sister that she was, thumped him hard on the back and laughed in his face. “You may have come out better in the battle,” Thorin said smugly, standing at the edge of the water, “but I think I won the war.”  
  
The younger siblings exchanged a glance and identical evil grins lit their faces as they exclaimed as one, “Alliance!” Dripping wet the two scurried out of the lake and engaged in an incredibly undignified chase around its perimeter until their elder brother slowed his pace enough that they were able to overtake him and tumble back into the deep cold water.  
  
Without respect to rank, nobility or even age (for surely Thorin was getting too old for this) the three heirs of the Lonely Mountain dunked, splashed and nearly drowned one another, laughing and shouting loudly enough half the camp noticed and either smiled to see their good cheer or rolled their eyes fondly at their antics. Even Thráin did not have the heart to order them to stop.  
  
“What are we going to do with those wild dwarflings?” he asked his wife, folding his arms and shaking his head at his children.  
  
Freya smiled up at him and sighed lightly, “I haven’t any idea. But aren’t we blessed to have them?”  
  
Thráin gave his wife a strange look, as though he was not sure whether or not she was being serious. “You call this a blessing?”  
  
“Not this,” she corrected him. “ _Them._ ”  
  
And seeing them, alive and whole and happy, in spite of all they lost, Thráin could not disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote for this one, folks! Thanks for sticking with it, I had no idea it would take so long to finish. Quick note, "Gamil-adad" is my crappy way of trying to come up with Khuzdul for "grandfather" since I couldn't find an actual translation anywhere, it literally means "old father." As ever, I got it off the Dwarrow Scholar's Khuzdul-English dictionary.


End file.
